


Wrong House, Right Decision

by gaydaractivate04



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Drunk Sokka (Avatar), Drunken Shenanigans, Fake Burglary, Fluff, Home Invasion, Humor, I wrote this to be less sad, It worked, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Misunderstandings, The opposite of meet-cute, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, but then it gets cleared up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 19:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30026877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaydaractivate04/pseuds/gaydaractivate04
Summary: The last thing Zuko had expected when he was woken by a crash downstairs was a gorgeous guy, all smiles and slurred words, drunk out of hismind,as he tried to sleep on Zuko's couch.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 142





	Wrong House, Right Decision

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! On a little of a one-shot binge right now, completely ignoring the two wips I have. If you're one of those people, checkin' in on the "Ambassador Sokka" series, I haven't abandoned it, never fear.
> 
> I was inspired to write this by some dumb Tumblr post, which I sadly do not have the link to.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Zuko woke up with a jolt, eyes springing open to the dark of his room. His clock, which rested right by his head on the bedside cabinet, told him that it was  _ three _ in the morning.

Great, a whole  _ two hours _ of sleep under his belt!

Something had woken him, he knew that. One of Zuko’s neighbors had the tendency to bash their walls with battering rams - or hammers on nails, it was all about perspective - at odd hours, and he laid there for a moment, listening to the near-silence of the night, hearing nothing.

He’d probably imagined it, had woken from a car driving by or an owl hooting. Zuko grumbled to himself as he rolled over, dragging his sheets across the mattress until he was comfortably smothered, face smashed into the pillow.

_ Thump. _

Zuko sat right up, heart pounding, his sheets twisted around him and pooled in his lap, as he strained to his senses, perfectly still in his bed. He had  _ not _ imagined that, and he was wide awake now.

It had sounded close, nearby. Maybe he’d left a window open, and one of his neighbors was moving things out of their house, despite the hour and the stars shining in the sky. They’d probably decided to take advantage of the temperature, now that the sun wasn’t beating down on them, now that the moon was high and night was cool -

_ Crash. _

...That had come from downstairs.

_ Burglars? _

He knew he could take one, maybe two full grown adults, with the mixed martial arts training he’d taken throughout his entire childhood and those wonderful years with Piandao and Uncle, honing his skills with encouragement instead of fists.

_ Had his father found him? _

Zuko had deleted all of his social media accounts, changed his number three times, his address twice, and he didn’t doubt that his father could still find him. Why Ozai would want him back, Zuko didn’t know -- but two close calls with car crashes in a week was enough explanation. 

_ Or worst of all, Jehovah’s Witnesses? _

They’d stood outside his door for two hours, last Saturday, and he’d ended up accepting a pamphlet through the mail slot, just to get them to go away. If he hit one with a fire extinguisher, a judge would probably rule it as self defense.

Zuko was careful, as he slipped from his bed. He was barefoot, wearing only his boxers, and he reached for the only weapons he owned, rather than clothes. If the choice was between protecting himself or protecting the eyes of  _ whoever the fuck _ was in his house, Zuko was going to chose himself.

The hilts of his dao blades were comfortable in his hands as he stepped out of his room, moving at a half-crouch, forever thankful for his past self’s decision to leave the bedroom door open when he’d gone to sleep.

With blinds closed and lights off, the living room was shrouded in darkness, as Zuko paused at the top of the stairs, peeking past the corner and squinting, searching for a movement, for a hulking figure rifling through his belongings.

And -

_ There. _ By his couch, someone was moving things around, picking blankets up from the two armchairs and folding them, fluffing the pillows that were squished in the corners.

_ What kind of burglar steals blankets? _

Zuko crept down the stairs, keeping his center of gravity low, placing his weight on the edge of each step, avoiding the creaky boards. There was no sense in going through all that trouble to be quiet, and then alert them with one wrong step.

The person had their back turned, as Zuko approached, sticking to the darkest shadows, his swords held up and ready. They picked something else up, another pillow, and their hands were full, it was the perfect moment -

Zuko lunged forward, knocking the burglar onto the ground, a startled cry sounding as they hit the hardwood floor,  _ hard. _ Piandao had taught him well, though he doubted his teacher had ever foreseen this situation.

_ “Why are you in my house?”  _ Zuko hissed, straddling the burglar - the man, if the flat chest and obvious lack of hips was any indication - knees keeping struggling arms from grabbing him, swords locked under their throat. “What do you want?”

“Wha’?” A voice croaked out, and he’d been right, it was a man. “Who’re you?”

You don’t- you don’t  _ ask _ who someone is when you break into their house.

“You’re the burglar!” said Zuko after a pause, and he felt childish saying it, like a five year old  _ insisting _ that they weren’t the one who’d last used a toy, that now lay torn apart on the floor. “Who are  _ you? _ ”

“I’m n’ a burglar,” said the other man, words slurred, voice thick. “You’re in my friend...my friend’s house.  _ You’re _ the burglar.”    
  
He said that with all the confidence of a drunk man who’d broken into Zuko’s home -- for he was, in fact, drunk, the bitter stink of alcohol hanging heavy on his breath, words stumbling into each other.

“Which bar did you come from?” Zuko sighed and pulled his swords back, away from the man’s throat. There was no way someone so inebriated that they went into the wrong house would be any threat to Zuko, and if he was, well, Zuko was the one with the swords.

The question made the man beneath him light up and  _ shit, Zuko was still straddling him. _ Quickly, he rolled to the side, coming to his knees, the cold hardwood soothing in the summer heat. Zuko was blushing, he knew he was, he could  _ feel it, _ but Drunk Man didn’t seem to notice, pushing himself upright, his grin as bright as quicksilver against his shadowy figure.

“Badgermole,” the man said, his speech only slightly clearer. The word was abrupt, said with an air of conclusiveness, as if the Drunk Man had come to a decision and felt the need to share it.

“What?”

“Badgermole.” He repeated himself, waving at Zuko with one hand. “You know, tha’ new bar a few over. It’s got, like... _so_ _many_ special drinks.”

Special drinks -- Zuko could tell this man had had  _ too  _ many of them.

“Right,” Zuko said, instead of everything else he wanted to blurt out. He was fairly sure Drunk Man wasn’t faking it, as his unexpected guest tipped towards the floor, at an excruciatingly slow speed. Zuko didn’t think the other man even  _ noticed. _ “I’ll just- I’m going to turn on the lights.”

He couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder as he crossed the room, taking small, careful steps and expertly avoiding furniture, moving around the stacks of books placed at random points, missing them by inches. By the time he got to the light switch, the Drunk Man was sprawled completely on his side, the soft sound of snores carrying to where Zuko stood.   
  
He turned the lights on dimly, at their lowest setting, before he made his way back over to the other man. Drunk Man was certainly dressed like he’d had a night out -- four piercings in one ear, topped with a silver cuff, a loose blue tank top, the fabric ending several inches above his waist, and jeans so form fitting they should’ve been  _ illegal. _

Thank Agni the other man was unconscious.

_ Wait, no, that made Zuko sound like a creeper. _

Thank Agni the other man was unconscious so he couldn’t see Zuko’s embarrassing blush, as he pulled the other man upright and consequently got a better view of his face, because Drunk Man was  _ gorgeous. _

“Hey,” Zuko called, softly. He shook the man a little, hoping to rouse him, to no avail. Instead, the snoring doubled in volume and Zuko would’ve thought it was an act, if not for how utterly  _ limp _ Drunk Man was. His head lolled to the side, his face slack and mouth hanging slightly open.

_ Damn it. _ Zuko didn’t even have anyone to call, he didn’t have a  _ name. _ Unexpected guests were a rare occurrence for him, with his obsessive organization - Mai’s words, not his - let alone ones he  _ didn’t know. _

He could call Uncle for advice, could ask him to come over, but Zuko had already woken his uncle twice in as many weeks, with panicked calls and texts after spotting Azula while out of the house, anxiety attacks edging his words.

No, he wouldn’t call Uncle, the man needed to sleep and he didn’t need to be bothered with things like this. Besides, Zuko was an adult and he could deal with his own problems.

Even if the said problem was a grown man passed out in his living room.

With a sigh, Zuko straightened and stepped around the other man, and went to finish what he’d started: setting up a bed on the couch. The pillows had already been rearranged, some stacked haphazardly on the floor, two fluffed and placed at one end of the couch. Blankets, which usually were thrown over the back of his armchairs, were now folded in half and spread over the couch cushions -- a thoughtful touch, coming from an intoxicated man.

Zuko straightened the crooked blankets, moved the unnecessary pillows to the chairs, before heading to the kitchen. There, he grabbed a glass and filled it with water, palming two ibuprofens. He took the bright red, plastic bucket from under his sink as an afterthought.

He did  _ not _ want to clean someone else’s puke off his floor.

Drunk Man was still unconscious when he returned, not even twitching when Zuko stepped carefully around him. The ibuprofen went on the coffee table, the cup on a coaster, and the puke bucket beside the couch, aligned with the small mound of pillows that had found a new home.

As it turned out, dead weight was a lot harder to move than it looked. 

Zuko never would've guessed.

Drunk Man didn’t wake up once, not the entire time Zuko dragged and positioned him. Shoulders and head went first, slumped against the pillows -- Drunk Man’s head flopped back at a dangerous angle as he was carried; Zuko was terrified he would break the other man’s neck.

Then came the legs. With them, many problems arose, all at once, in an overwhelming fashion. 

Zuko first tried to boost the lower legs onto the couch, tugging at the ankles. As soon as he let go, though, they slipped right off the cushions, with Drunk Man’s torso and thighs still on the floor. Then, Zuko tried to pick him by the knees, both arms wrapped around the joints, bent over as he lifted, just in time to catch a knee to the jaw.

Apparently, Drunk Man would not wake up when being bodily dragged around, but could recognize a stranger touching him and decided to defend himself. Great instincts. Terrible time for them.

It was much harder wrestling a person jerking around and swinging at you onto a couch than it was moving dead weight. Zuko found that he much preferred it when Drunk Man was completely limp and useless, rather than actively working against him.

He ended picking Drunk Man up in a bridal carry, one arm under the other’s knees, one arm supporting his back, and ignored the hit he took to his jaw as he dumped the other man onto the cushion. By some wonderful miracle, a lucky twist of fate considering the rest of the night, Drunk Man stayed on the couch, no longer jerking around without Zuko holding him.

_ Thank fucking Agni. _

Jaw smarting, eyes still watering, Zuko backed away, until his spine hit the opposite wall and he slipped to the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest, laying his stinging cheek against them. He was exhausted -- a terrible day at work, barely two hours of sleep, and finding a stranger drunk in your home would do that to you.

_ What was he even doing? _

He’d just found  _ a stranger drunk in his home, _ and he was tucking him into bed? Letting him sleep on the couch, fixing the blankets, setting ibuprofen out for the morning? 

That was asking to get robbed, that was asking to get  _ murdered, _ asking to wake up with a knife pricking his throat -

But the guy passed out, and he’d obviously been heavily intoxicated before. It would’ve been more risky to kick him out, to dump the guy on the sidewalk and lock the door, trusting in the goodness of citizens to keep Drunk Man safe.

There wasn’t a lot of that around, goodness.

Zuko didn’t have anyone to call, didn’t know who this man was friends with. There weren't  _ enough _ options, but he wouldn’t choose the one that got a defenseless, drunk, unconscious man mugged and killed.

So, instead of panicking, instead of calling the cops, instead of opening his door and rolling Drunk Man out, Zuko stood on shaking legs and made his way to the light switch. He flicked it off, dosing the room in darkness -- he’d long since learned how to get around in the dark, dating back to his childhood, to that cold house with empty rooms and loud voices.

He sat in his favorite armchair - the one with dark red cushions and a view of the entire room, his back to the corner - and settled in for a long night.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Sokka woke up with a dry mouth, pounding headache, and itchy eyes, all the unfortunate side effects of a late night out and far too many drinks to pass the time. He was laying down, on something soft, and a blanket was strewn over him, despite the early morning warmth of the summer.

He must’ve made it to Suki’s after all and crashed on her couch. The blanket was a thoughtful touch, the fabric soft against his fingers and he rubbed it between them. He was so  _ comfortable, _ he didn’t want to get up.

Then, a clatter from behind him, metal on metal, and Sokka’s eyes instinctively sprung open.  _ Bad idea. Very, very, very bad idea. _

He groaned as his headache kicked up a notch, aching behind his eyes, even though he’d shut them as fast as he could. Everything was so fucking  _ loud, _ and if someone would please run him over with a truck and put him out of his misery, that would be great, thanks.

“Pancakes?” called a voice, and Sokka groaned again, fighting back a very manly whimper at the volume. Carefully, he opened his eyes again, squinting at the sunlight coming through the blinds. 

He was on the couch, just as he thought.  _ Take that, laggy brain. I know things. _ Across from him was a coffee table, a red armchair, a green armchair -- the miss match furniture paired with equally chaotic combinations of throw pillows.

This was  _ not _ Suki’s living room.

_ Damn you, laggy brain. You win again, I don’t know things. _

“I don’t -” Sokka turned, ignoring the way the blanket twisted around him, and squinted, looking for the source of the question. Behind the couch was a small dining table, four chairs pushed in around it, and past that -

_ Wow. _   
  


Sokka was suddenly very aware of how terrible he must look, bedraggled and hungover, still wearing the clothes he’d gotten drunk in the night before. The man before him was…

Black hair ruffled from sleep, wearing gray pajama pants and a worn, red shirt, watching Sokka watch him.  _ Beautiful. _

“What?”

_ Oh shit, oh Spirits no, Tui and La, he would never recover. _ His brain-to-mouth filter hadn’t kicked in yet, stuttering to a stop every time Sokka tried to kick it into gear. He hadn’t meant to say the aloud, had meant to keep that thought tucked away for all of eternity, instead of embarrassing himself and, no doubt, making the guy very uncomfortable.

“Pancakes sound great!” A touch of hysteria in the voice was just a normal phenomenon when you wake up in a strange place to a strange -  _ beautiful _ \- man asking you what you want for breakfast. “Can I- can I use your bathroom?”

The other man nodded, turning back to the kitchen, pointing over his shoulder. “It’s up the stairs, turn right. First door.”

_ Spirits, if he hooked up with this guy and didn’t even remember it, let alone his name - _

Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. Sokka could chow down on some pancakes, thank his host for letting him stay the night, and be out the door before the subject of names even came up.

The bathroom was nice, sage green towels and jasmine scented soap --  _ someone _ had an interior decorator. Or, maybe, he had taste, a rare quality - according to Katara - in Sokka’s hookups.

He used his moment of privacy to wash his face and redo his wolf tail, rinsing his mouth out with a combination of toothpaste and hot water, dabbing his face dry with the corner of a towel that was hanging up. It wasn’t his place, he wasn’t about to get the guy’s towel wet all over without  _ asking. _

When Sokka came down the stairs, the man was waiting there, at the bottom. He looked unimpressed, vaguely annoyed, and Sokka couldn’t help but wonder if the night before had been terrible and he was lucky to not remember it.

“Here,” said the man, thrusting a hand in Sokka’s direction, and he took it without thinking. That only served to make the beautiful guy look a delightful combination of irritated  _ and _ confused. “No, don’t- don’t hold my hand. It’s- I was giving you something. Advil, I was giving you Advil.”

_ Spirits, _ Sokka was such an idiot when he’d just woken up.

In his defense, it looked like a perfect moment to hold hands.

“Sorry,” he said, flashing a smile as he withdrew his hand and took the two pills from the other man’s palm as he did. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” came the mumbled response and Sokka couldn’t help the satisfaction that fueled his grin as the man blushed. Maybe last night  _ hadn’t _ been terrible, and that was why he was getting free breakfast instead of a push out the door.

Pancakes were indeed waiting at the dining table, two plates paired with glasses of orange juice, a bowl of fruit -  _ were those lychees? _ \- between them. 

Maybe last night had been  _ great. _ Sokka was holding out hope, as he took in the breakfast, swallowing the pills with a mouthful of orange juice. He’d checked them beforehand, of course, he wasn’t  _ that _ kind of stupid. They were name brand, with a black “advil” labeling each.

Not getting roofied at ten in the morning, no siree.

“So,” said the man, after they were both seated and settled, two pancakes on his plate, four stacked on Sokka’s, a generous amount of maple syrup covering each. “Do I get a name to pair with the guy who broke into my house and passed out on the floor?”

“It’s Sokka.” His brain took a few seconds to comprehend the rest of the guy’s sentence, puzzling out the meaning of words that really shouldn’t be so confusing. “Wait, hold on, I broke into your house?”

There, the combination of unimpressed and annoyed was back.

“You don’t even remember?”

“Well,” said Sokka, unwilling to admit to the glaring hole in his memory. He knew he’d gone out for drinks, he remembered the bar, the sharp burn of alcohol down his throat, a sticky fruitiness on his lips -- nothing about how he got here, inside and on a couch. “See, I had a few of these -”

“Special drinks,” interrupted the man, rolling his eyes. “I know, you told me.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to say to that, choosing to instead fill his mouth with a bite of pancake, which was  _ heavenly, _ by the way. Then a thought popped up, somewhere from the recesses of his mind. “Do I get a name to pair with the guy who apparently let me sleep on his couch and didn’t call the cops?”

“Zuko.” The guy -  _ Zuko _ \- turned to his breakfast as well, though with notably less crumbs and moans of deliciousness muffled by a mouthful of pancake.

So sue Sokka, this guy made the best pancakes he’d ever had.

There wasn’t much conversation for the rest of the meal, Sokka demolishing his plate full of food - four pancakes, three scoops of sliced fruit, a glass of juice, sans pulp - in less than half an hour, while Zuko ate at a much more sedate pace across from him.

He didn’t want to prolong it, to overstay a welcome that was doubtlessly already strained. He’d broken into the guy’s house, after all, and he was lucky he was still alive, let alone being served breakfast in the dining room.

“Well, thank you, but I should really be going.” Sokka was out of his seat as soon as he finished, taking his plate and glass to the kitchen and putting them in the sink, before turning and heading straight for the door, all while Zuko watched from the table, wide eyed and frozen. “I’m so sorry for barging in, for waking you and probably scaring you, that was shitty of me -”

“Wait!” Zuko was out of his chair, rushing to where Sokka was standing, and it was like the wind had been knocked out of him as Zuko stopped only a few inches away, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to get to Sokka. “Wait, please.”

“I’m sorry, but thank you for, you know, not murdering me or getting me arrested.” His hand was on the doorknob, turning it as he spoke. “I’ll find a way to pay you back for this or something, someday, but I’ve got to go.”

Sokka really did have to leave, for reasons beside the obvious. He’d never made it to Suki’s house, his phone was dead - he’d checked - and Katara would  _ actually _ murder him if he didn’t check in as soon as possible.

“Wait, just -” Zuko paused and Sokka felt his hopes soar -- hopes for what, he wasn’t sure. “Can I give you my number? So you can pay me back sometime. Maybe with a coffee or, I don’t know, um…”   
  
As Sokka stood there, frozen, Zuko seemed to deflate, shoulders drooping and hand coming up to rub the back of his neck,  _ embarrassed. _

“Sorry, that was -”

“Yeah, of course!” Sokka couldn’t get the words out fast enough, his brain screaming hysterically at him as Zuko fumbled for a pen, finding one on the entry table. The screaming ramped up when the pen came uncapped and Zuko held out a hand, reaching for Sokka’s wrist.

Numbly, he let the other man scribble a string of numbers down, the pen tip scratching on his skin. This was not an outcome he’d imagined at any time, especially not once Sokka found out he’d  _ broken into Zuko’s house, _ like some  _ maniac. _

“There,” said Zuko, pulling the pen away, and Sokka didn’t think he imagined that breathlessness as he grinned, happier than he’d been in a long time. “That’s- that’s mine.”

“Yep.” Sokka just smiled at the man, standing there, hands limp at his sides. Then, his brain clicked into gear,  _ finally, _ and his thought’s jumped into action. “I’m so sorry, I do actually have to go. My sister and my friends are going to murder me if I don’t come home at some point.”

“Oh, right! It’s okay, go ahead.” Zuko opened the door for him, pulling it wide, hitting the both of them with a blast of morning sunshine, something Sokka was  _ not  _ prepared for and winced, his headache not quite defeated by two advils.

Despite his urge to just stay there, to talk to this gorgeous guy until it was night again, Sokka stepped out, walking down the stairs -- quickly, lest the temptation to stay grow too strong and he never left.

Sokka walked away with one last wave to Zuko, grinning, triumphant, a phone number scrawled on his forearm and happiness, blooming again in his heart.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> And then Sokka arrives home to find Katara and the rest of his friends in his living room, frantically trying to find a way to trace a dead phone and figure out if they can report him missing yet. (Toph's suggestions range from slightly mob related to break down every door in the city and search 'em.)
> 
> Katara yells at him for half an hour before he can get a word in and then all he says is: "I've got a date.
> 
> Meanwhile, Zuko's over there panicking and being like: "oh god, I hope he doesn't think I was creepy, he probably thought I was so creepy, fuck oh no -"


End file.
